MIT: Entente Cordial
by Northumbrian
Summary: A strange and seemingly inexplicable death in London's West End brings an unlikely collection of individuals together.
1. On the Beat

**On the Beat**

It was a little after ten pm. I was on foot patrol with probationary Constable Kevin Pinner. He was fresh from Hendon training college, and I was showing him around the patch he would be covering. It was Pinner's first night in London's theatre district and his first night shift.

We were walking through the bustling West End with its flashing lights, gaudy signs and gawping tourists. It was a quiet night. The most exciting thing to happen was when a couple of American tourists had asked Pinner for directions to the nearest tube station.

'It's just there, sir,' I said, pointing at the red roundel and blue bar symbol at the end of the street.

As we continued to walk slowly through the streets I took a good look at a group of raucous youths. Upon hearing the Australian accents and talk of Eurorail, I dismissed them from my mind. Backpackers! I was about to test Pinner, to ask him what he thought of them when a camera flashed.

'Can they do that?' Pinner asked. Looking across at the middle aged Orientals who were now pointing at us and chattering excitedly.

'It's the hats,' I told him as I acknowledged the tourists by touching the brim of my bowler. 'They like the hats. They aren't doing any harm. This is a nice part of town, Pinner, full of tourists. It's not a bad beat,' I told him confidently.

I turned into one of the quieter side streets, and continued to give Pinner the benefit of my years of experience.

'I've been in the job for fifteen years,' I told him. 'I've seen it all,' I added. 'I once saw a man in a domino mask and striped sweater climbing in through a basement window. He had a sack over his back.'

'Seriously?' Pinner asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

'Yeah.' I nodded. 'I called it in, waited for back up, and then we followed him through the window.'

'Did you catch him red-handed?'

I laughed. 'We caught him with his pants down. Literally! His girlfriend was very embarrassed. It was her house, and it was "just a little game they played!" You never know what you'll see in this job.'

By then we were walking through streets where there very few tourists, and more chance of something interesting. What we found only moments later was certainly interesting. I don't suppose he'll ever forget it. I know I won't.

* * *

><p>A narrow alley snaked off from the side street. The man in the alley was brawny and shaven-headed. He wore a dark suit and had one hand on the wall to hold himself upright. It appeared that he was struggling to stay on his feet, he was leaning forwards and his head was down.<p>

'We'll go and have a quiet word with him, make sure he's okay,' I told Pinner.

The young probationer's reaction to my comment was one of utter confusion. He looked wildly around, wondering what I was talking about. I realised that he hadn't been looking down the alleys. Instead, he'd been acting like a tourist himself. He was reading the poster outside the only theatre on the street. The New Music Theatre was one of the least known theatres in the West End. The smiling, top-billed star on the poster outside the foyer was someone called Tommy Harris.

The show, according to the poster was called "Snowflakes" and the star's name was vaguely familiar to me. I dredged the information from the back of my mind. Tommy Harris was a former member of a short-lived boy band who, three years earlier, had won one of the many TV talent shows. I couldn't remember which one. I couldn't even remember the name of the band.

Whatever they were called, Tommy Harris's band had proved to be one-hit wonders. They, and he, had released a moderately successful single and an album and had then rapidly retreated into obscurity. He was a good-looking young man, but if he was working in the New Music Theatre, a place which was probably the smallest and certainly the shabbiest of the theatres in the area, then his star had fallen.

'You're not here to sightsee, Pinner,' I reminded the probationer sternly. 'You're on the beat. You need to check every alley.'

Pinner finally looked in the right direction. It was a dark and narrow passageway, barely wide enough for a car, but the well-dressed man was clearly silhouetted by light coming from an open fire door. The door, I noticed, led into the rear of the theatre whose posters Pinner had been reading. Because of his build, and his suit, my first thought was that the man was a bouncer and that someone—or, given his size, several someones—had given him a pasting. In a low voice, I gave Pinner the benefit of my experience and told him what I thought.

I would soon rue the confident arrogance of my prediction.

As we approached, the man still had one hand against the wall. I realised that he'd been vomiting, and that there wasn't a mark on him. I immediately changed my assessment and wondered it, instead of assisting him, we'd be arresting him.

'Unless, of course, he's simply drunk,' I whispered to Pinner in an attempt to maintain my superiority. 'But it may be drugs. If it's booze or weed, we'll smell it. It could be something stronger, you can do the search.'

As we drew closer the man looked up, and relief shone from his face. 'That was quick,' he said, blinking tears from his eyes. 'Thank Christ you're here!'

For the second time in seconds I was forced to reassess the situation. _Arrogance leads to downfall_, I reminded myself as Pinner's expression showed that he was no longer impressed by my wisdom. It was quite obvious that the man before us was neither drunk nor high. His frightened face was pale and tearstained. Before I could reply, my radio crackled into life. I responded with my call sign.

'We've a report of an incident at the New Music Theatre, Sarge. The 999 call was very sketchy, it said something about a body, but the caller was crying. He wasn't making much sense. We've dispatched a car, but it's on your beat. How close are you?' The voice said.

'Received,' I said. 'I'm already on scene, we've just arrived. I'll let you know what's happening.'

'It's a coincidence, sir,' I told the man. 'Constable Pinner and I were simply passing. Could you tell us what, exactly, is the problem?'

'Tommy's dead,' the man said. 'At least… I think it's Tommy.' He couldn't say more, because tears were again tracking down his face.

'Where?' I asked.

He waved at the open fire door.

I peered into the theatre, and found myself staring down a corridor. The walls were painted a horrible diarrhoea-brown, and the scuffed and shabby doors were the colour of cow-pats. The far end of the narrow passageway was crowded with showbiz types. They were being kept away from an open door by an elderly man in overalls. The man, who had his back to me, was struggling to hold back the crowd.

'Get this man's details, Pinner,' I ordered. 'Name, address, witness statement, everything, and don't let him leave. I'll go and see what's happening.'

As I walked in through the fire door one of the crowd—a young girl in baggy, bright pink trousers and a sunflower yellow peasant blouse—saw me. Her purple hair was tied into three bunches with enormous polka dot bows, and she was straining to see past the man who was blocking the corridor.

'Here's the rozzers, Jacko,' she squeaked.

The elderly man turned to face me. His expression changed from that of a man clinging by one hand to the top of the Shard, to one who was about to be pulled to safety. Some colour returned to his grey face.

'You're not by yourself, are you?' he asked desperately.

That question, and the frightened look in his eyes, was the final piece of the puzzle. It was confirmation that I was dealing with something very serious. This wasn't simply "Tommy's dead", or "something about a body".

'I was passing on foot patrol, sir,' I told him as I approached. 'Can you tell me what's going on?'

As he distractedly indicated the open door, the girl in the pink dungarees dodged past him and looked into the room. She screamed, and fainted.

Moments later I, too, saw the contents of the room. I swore, and stared in disbelief at the scene. Although I tried to retain my professionalism, it took me a few moments to calm my roiling stomach and regain my composure.

'Pinner!' I yelled as my priorities changed once again. 'Get in here now. Bring chummy with you! And get this lot out of this corridor.' I turned to the elderly man, and put on my professional face. 'You, sir! She called you Jacko…' I began. The girl with purple hair moaned and began to stir.

'Alf Jackson,' he told me. 'Stagehand.'

'Alf Jackson,' I repeated, fixing his name in my mind. 'Where can we hold this lot, Mr Jackson? Is there somewhere away from the crime scene?'

'Dunno. In the auditorium? On the stage?' he suggested as Pinner arrived at my side.

The first witness was alongside Pinner. The shaven-headed man sobbed, shuddered, and averted his gaze from the open door as he hurried past. Pinner, however, looked into the room. He froze for a moment and then screamed. I had never before heard any man make such a high-pitched noise. Pinner turned and ran outside to be sick.

'Would you take everyone into the auditorium, please, Mr Jackson,' I asked the stagehand. 'Try to ensure that no one leaves the building. Someone will be along to see you soon.'

I considered entering the room. A very small part of me wanted to make sure that it wasn't a wind-up, some elaborate and very grisly practical joke. But the smell of fresh blood was real enough, and that alone made it easy for me to justify my decision to stay where I was. I told myself that I didn't want to contaminate the crime scene, and that there was definitely no need for me to check for signs of life. The latter was certainly true.

As Alf Jackson herded the troupe away from the scene, I grabbed my radio, and gave my call sign. 'Suspicious death, New Music Theatre,' I said, marvelling at the understatement in those first two words. 'Partial remains of an as yet unidentified male. What's the ETA on the car … never mind, they're here.'

PCs Hampshire and Khan looked very cheerful as they walked in through the open fire door. They were obviously making jokes about Pinner puking. They stopped smiling when they saw my face.

'Christ, Andy,' I said in relief. 'Am I glad to see you! You, too, Mo!'

* * *

><p>An hour later the place was taped off and the tourists had gathered to watch the free show.<p>

The bright theatre lights were joined by a blaze of flashing blue lights. CID had banished Andy and Mo to the front of the theatre; Pinner and I were guarding the alley. Inside, SOCO were processing the crime scene and CID were taking statements from the witnesses.

At my insistence, Pinner had been checked out by the paramedics. They said he was okay, but he was obviously extremely shaken. I offered him the opportunity to leave, but he stubbornly refused to return to the nick.

When I'd spoken to the young paramedic who'd checked Pinner out, I was fairly certain that she was badly shaken, too. Sometimes I wonder about the requirement for a health professional to confirm "no signs of life", there are occasions where it's obvious to anyone.

'What should I have done, Sarge?' Pinner asked me.

The pleading in his voice was that of a man racked with guilt. I remembered the feeling from my early days in the service. I remembered the cyclist crushed under the car, the girl I couldn't save, and I remembered what my sergeant had told me.

'We did everything we could, Kevin,' I assured him. 'We can't always make things better. Sometimes all we can do is pick up the pieces. Nothing that happened is your fault!'

'Did you see him, Sarge?' Pinner asked.

I'd lost count of the number of times he'd asked that question.

'You know I did,' I said.

'Where do you think top half of him has gone?' he asked hesitantly.

'That's for CID to figure out,' I said. 'Don't worry about being shaken up, Kevin. You did okay, and don't let anyone tell you anything else. If anyone at the station tries to take the piss, let me know, and I'll have words. That was a hell of an introduction to the job. I've been in the force for fifteen years, and I don't think I've seen a dozen bodies.'

'Have you ever seen anything like that?' he asked worriedly.

'No, Kevin,' I assured him. 'I've never seen anything like that. Until tonight the worst I ever saw was a bloke who jumped onto the third rail.' I shuddered and, as was always the case then I mentioned it, remembered the sweet smell of burning flesh.

'How do you think they did it?' he asked. 'Samurai sword?'

'Straight through a torso, bones and all,' I observed. 'That's a helluva sharp sword, Kevin, or a helluva strong killer.'

'I wonder how they got the other half of the body out,' he pondered.

I didn't answer immediately; I couldn't, because that had been puzzling me, too. It was as if everything from the waist up had vanished.

I was still carefully considering my reply when I saw the car. At the end of the alley, a gleaming black Range Rover was gliding to a halt.

'Hello…' I said. 'I reckon things are going to get very interesting.'

'Who're they?' Pinner asked, 'Any idea, Sarge?'

'I think, Kevin, that we're about to find out if the rumours are true,' I told him. 'For a few years there have been rumours about weird deaths. I've heard several stories. They all say the same thing; if the death is strange enough, a black Range Rover turns up, and a group of people claiming to be part of the security services take charge. Some people call them UFO hunters; others say that they're ghost busters. According to the rumours, when they arrive they tell everyone that they are from the Auror Office … Bloody hell!'

I stared at the tall, broad-shouldered woman who had climbed out from the driver's seat. 'Bobbie Beadle, as I live and breathe,' I shouted. 'How long have you been a ghost buster?'

'Tracey Twigg' she said. 'Long time, no see! How are you? When did you make sergeant?'

As she strode up the alley, two younger men followed her. All three of them wore black ankle-length trench coats, black trousers, and white shirts.

One of the men was small, only about five foot four. There was no weight to him either. He was whip thin, wiry and his hair was a curly, mousey brown. He was also fully alert, and very wary. His eyes were darting everywhere, and he had his hand inside his coat. Wondering if he was carrying a concealed firearm, I placed a hand on my baton; it didn't provide much reassurance.

The other man was a good-looking and well-built six-footer. He had cropped blonde hair, a square jaw, and bright blue eyes. He looked like the Aryan ideal, and he was looking very smug about something.

'A couple of years ago,' I said.

'Good to see you, Tracey,' she told me. 'Time flies. It's been what, ten years? This is Dennis Creevey.' She indicated the small man. 'And Stan Cresswell.' She pointed at the tall blond. 'They're from the Auror Office.'

'Told you,' I said to Kevin.


	2. On the Pull

**On the Pull**

The biggest advantage of working for the Muggle Interface Team is the fact that we always work the day shift. There is a downside of course; we're on call twenty-four hours a day.

I had finished work at five, and gone to do my duty. I'd allowed my mother to feed me and fuss over me, and I'd listened with interest as she told me how well my kid brother was doing, and what a good and clever boy he was.

It took me some time to escape.

When I finally managed to get away from my mother, I Flooed straight back to the Ministry. I had no intention of going into the office, but the Ministry was in central London and it was a good place from which to enter the Muggle world.

I was due to have four days off work, and as I'd seen mother, that meant four days to myself. It was time to look for some fun.

When I left the Ministry and strolled down onto the Strand, I was wearing my best and most fashionable casual Muggle clothes. I slowly made my way towards Trafalgar Square, stopping in every pub to check out the talent. It was about half past ten, and I was stone cold sober. Walking into a raucous pub when you haven't been drinking is always an interesting experience.

The Princess of Wales wasn't full, and most of the clientele were middle-aged commuters on their way home after a few drinks too many. A blousy woman in her forties seemed to be very interested in me. I gave her a few minutes of my time, but she stank of booze, cheap perfume, and desperation, so didn't stay. Instead, I moved along the road to the Sherlock Holmes. It was much noisier and busier than the Princess of Wales; there was standing room only in the bar. The place was packed, mostly with tourists, and not all of them were couples.

'Gomen'nasai,' I told the pretty little Japanese girl whose arm I'd "accidentally" nudged as I made my way to the bar.

She had her back to me, and began her reply in rapid Japanese before she'd turned to look at me. The moment she did, she found herself facing my chest. She stopped talking. As she looked up into my face in surprise, I smiled.

'Kon'nichiwa,' I said as politely as I could. I had to speak loudly in order to be heard over the noise of the crowded pub. The three girls she was with chattered and giggled in their native tongue. 'I've now almost exhausted my knowledge of Japanese,' I admitted. 'I spilled your drink, I am sorry. Can I buy you another? What are you drinking?'

I tell people that I'm a polyglot. It isn't true, of course, but I can say "I'm sorry" and "Hello" in fifteen different languages. It's a great help as an icebreaker when wandering the bars and clubs of central London.

The girl whose drink I'd spilled was called Fuyumi, and her friends were Aki, Chihiro, and Hoshi. They were very impressed by the way I'd not only managed to get served at the bar, but also found a few seats for them. We were clustered around the tiny, drink-laden table and I was trying to persuade them all to try the beer I'd bought for them.

'You're in England,' I told them, holding up the pint I'd bought myself. 'You should try the beer!' They did, but only Hoshi took more than a single sip.

Half an hour later we were discussing the sights of London. By then I was focussing my attention on Hoshi because it seemed that, of the four, she was the one most interested in me. She wore glasses and wasn't the best-looking of the quartet—that was definitely Chihiro—but Hoshi was hanging on my every word.

After discovering that the quartet had three more days in London, I suggested that they visit Camden Town, and offered to act as Hoshi's personal guide to that part of London. That suggestion created a lot more giggles and chatter. Hoshi was trying to formulate a reply, which I was expecting it to be a polite refusal, when my Mirrorphone gave out the loud, staccato drumbeat which signalled only one thing.

'Duty calls,' I told the girls as I pulled the Mirrorphone from my pocket. 'Agent Cresswell,' I said, emphasising the first word and once again making the girls chatter excitedly in Japanese.

'The Muggle Interface Team protocols have been activated, Auror Cresswell,' I was told. 'Please go immediately to the Ministry car park.'

'On my way,' I said.

I replaced the Mirrorphone in my pocket and held out my hand to Hoshi. She took it eagerly, and I realised that she'd been going to say yes to my offer. Instead of shaking her hand as she expected, I bowed, lifted it to my lips, and kissed it. This caused more consternation among her companions. One of them was quick enough to take a photo on her phone. After releasing Hoshi's hand, I pulled a card containing my name and phone number from my pocket.

'It has been a pleasure, ladies,' I told them as I bowed politely to them all. As her friends giggled, I handed Hoshi the card, 'If you want to see the real sights, if you want a good time, Hoshi, phone me tomorrow. Sayōnara.'

Turning on my heels, I walked quickly out from the crowded bar. Making my way to the toilets, I found an empty cubicle. Once inside I pushed the door closed; I didn't lock it, I'm not that cruel, and then Disapparated.

I arrived in the Ministry car park just in time to see Den Creevey climbing into the front passenger seat of the Range Rover. I opened the rear door, and climbed in behind him. Detective Chief Inspector Wood was, as I expected, already in the driver's seat. The moment I closed the door, we pulled out from the parking space.

'Where are we going, Bobbie?' Dennis asked as we drove towards the exit.

'The West End, the New Music Theatre,' she said. 'The police have found half of a body in a dressing room. It seems that the room was locked from the inside, there are no windows, and the corridor was occupied.'

'D'you reckon the killer Apparated into the room?' I asked, leaning forward.

'Half a body?' Dennis asked at the same moment. 'Left, right, top, or bottom?'

'Possibly,' Bobbie told me. 'Bottom,' she said to Dennis. 'No head, torso, or arms. All we have are the legs, and the lower abdomen.'

'Have you been drinking, Stan?' she added.

'I'm not drunk. I bought myself a pint, but I only managed to drink half of it before the call came through,' I told her as I pulled a Toothflossing Stringmint from my pocket.

Bobbie turned on the siren and blue lights and we pulled out onto the Strand. Thanks to the sirens, we sped through the rapidly parting London traffic. It took only a matter of minutes for us to reach the theatre. I barely had time to pull my uniform out from my Auror wallet and change. The crime scene was, as always, crawling with Muggle police. As we pulled up, my Mirrorphone tinkled. I quickly read the message: "Call me tomorrow, Hoshi."

I touched the Mirrorphone and said, 'Save contact.'

'I've scored,' I told Dennis smugly as we alighted. I was feeling pleased with myself, but Dennis merely gave me a dismissive shrug.

For the first time since my original mission as a trainee, Bobbie was recognised. The moment we closed our doors one of the police officers, a dumpy, short-haired woman, yelled a greeting.

'Bobbie Beadle, as I live and breathe,' the police woman shouted. 'How long have you been a ghost buster?'

'Tracey Twigg,' Bobbie said. 'Long time, no see! How are you? When did you make sergeant?'

Den and I walked around the car and fell in behind Bobbie. She strolled up the alley and ducked under the tape. As we approached the scene, Den kept his hand in his coat pocket. I had no doubt that he was holding his wand. From the way he was looking around I suspected that he was checking to see if there was anyone invisible or Disillusioned in the area.

'A couple of years ago,' the sergeant said.

'Good to see you, Trace,' Bobbie said. 'Time flies. It's been what, Five years?'

'Closer to ten,' the woman said.

'Really? Time flies!' Bobbie shrugged. 'This is Dennis Creevey,' she indicated Den, 'and Stan Cresswell.' She pointed at me. 'They're from the Auror Office.'

'Told you,' the woman said to her pale-faced young colleague. She'd heard of us, and she was looking at us with unbridled curiosity.

'These days, I'm Bobbie Wood,' Bobbie continued. As we approached the two coppers, she raised her left hand and showed the sergeant her rings. 'I'm married, two kids! And I'm a DCI, believe it or not.' She pulled out her warrant card and showed it to the sergeant.

'Detective Chief Inspector! In SO15?' the sergeant said, obviously surprised. 'Sorry, ma'am, I didn't know. But I have to ask, what the hell has this job got to do with Counter Terrorism Command?'

'Just call me Bobbie, Trace,' said Bobbie. 'I'm the Auror Office Liaison, and these boys don't hold much on ceremony. Before we go in and annoy whoever's in charge, what can you tell us? Who was the first officer on the scene?'

'Me, and PC Pinner here.' the sergeant said, jerking a thumb towards her colleague.

'Excellent,' Bobbie said. 'Where's the crime scene? Were there any witnesses?'

'The crime scene is just through that door,' Tracey told her. 'The theatre staff and the actors are all inside, including the guy who found the body. Pinner took a brief statement from him, but plainclothes took over when they arrived. DCI Bradstreet from SCD1 is the man in charge; I don't know him.'

'Neither do I,' admitted Bobbie. 'What else can you tell me, Trace?'

'I spoke to a stagehand, Alf Jackson,' the sergeant told her. 'He was in the corridor when another man, Davey Drury, kicked in the door. Mr Jackson confirmed that the door was locked from the inside. Mr Drury was Tommy Harris's—Harris is the victim,' the policewoman explained. 'Drury was his chauffeur and minder. Drury told Alf Jackson that he was worried, because Harris was in the room, but wasn't answering. When they kicked in the door, they found the bottom half of a man's body. He'd been neatly sliced in two, but there was no sign of the top half. That's all I got from Jackson before CID took over. Did you get anything from Mr Drury, Kevin?' she asked her colleague.

The pale-faced pc pulled out his notes. 'Davey Drury told me that he wasn't simply a chauffeur, he claimed that he was Harris's boyfriend. He said that he was in the corridor when he heard voices in the changing room. Tommy Harris was talking to a woman. He claimed that Tommy shouted, and then someone dropped something and everything went quiet. Drury said that he knocked, but got no answer, and Alf Jackson arrived to see what all the noise was about. That was when Mr Drury kicked in the door and found the body.'

'Do you think they cooked up the story between them?' Bobbie asked.

The sergeant shrugged. 'We questioned them separately,' she said. 'And I don't think they know each other. Jackson called Drury "that bald bloke", he didn't even seem to know his name.'

'Drury called Jackson "the stagehand", Sarge,' said Pinner thoughtfully.

'Has the victim been identified?' Bobbie asked. 'Are you sure it's this Tommy Harris?'

'Yes, er, no,' Pinner said.

'I don't see how it can be anyone else, unless Drury is lying,' said Tracey.

'Locked room, and only half of the body, despite the fact that voices, plural, were heard in the room?' Bobbie asked.

Both Pinner and the sergeant nodded.

'You said someone dropped something. What, exactly, was the noise he heard?' Bobbie asked.

Pinner once again referred to his notes. 'He heard a thump, as if someone had dropped something,' he read.

'Unless this man Drury killed his boss, somehow locked the door, and then came up with an unbelievable story which doesn't even give him a decent alibi, this certainly sounds like a job for us,' Bobbie told the sergeant. She turned to Dennis. 'Den,' she ordered. 'Call the office. We'll need a photographer, forensics, and a medic. Once you've done that, go and talk to the SIO, DCI Bradstreet. See if you can speak to the witness, Drury, too. You know the drill.' Dennis Creevey nodded, and scurried off.

Bobbie then turned to me. 'Stan, take a look at the crime scene, talk to SOCO. See what they've discovered so far.'

'Okay,' I told her.

I walked through the fire door into the distinctly dingy corridor, and was only yards from the open door when a young woman in a smart grey suit turned the corner at its opposite end. When she saw me, the woman strode rapidly down the corridor, obviously determined not to let me reach the crime scene before she did. She was tall—only a couple of inches shorter than me—dark and slim, and she had a puffball of curly black hair. I slowed, allowing her to reach the open door a fraction before I did. We looked into the crime scene together.

The room was small and crowded. In addition to the half a body I was expecting, it contained four Muggle forensics people. I noticed that the door to the room had a star on it. I'd always assumed that the star on the door was a myth, apparently not. There were flowers, too. A huge bouquet was propped up next to the mirror.

'Who the hell are iyou/i?' the woman asked me aggressively.

'The name's Cresswell, Stan Cresswell,' I said coolly, giving her my most enigmatic smile. 'I'm with the Auror Office, we're attached to MI5. If you like, you can call me Stan. And you are?'

'Detective Constable Smith,' she told me firmly. She was trying not to smile. 'You can call me DC Smith. You're no Bond. Besides, he works for six, not five.'

'Dee-see, what a lovely name,' I told her. She continued to suppress her smile, turned away from me, and looked into the room.

'Any preliminary conclusions?' she asked one of the white suited individuals, a tall, thin man. All four were watching us. Both DC Smith and I realised that they had stopped working to listen to our banter.

'Disintegration Ray,' he said, looking at me. 'It looks like everything above his waist simply vanished.'

'Chopped in two, and the top half carried from the room?' DC Smith suggested.

'I'd say yes, except there is no blood between here and the door,' the man said. 'And I can't see how you could move the top half of a body without leaving a blood trail. I wasn't joking when I said "Disintegration Ray". Nothing else explains the lack of blood spatter, or the way the blood is pooling around the waist where the remains fell. It's a clean cut straight through flesh, bones, and organs. It's decidedly odd.'

'Odd?' DC Smith said. 'It's bizarre! I've never seen anything like it.'

'And that's why I'm here to help,' I said.

'Smart arse,' DC Smith said.

'You aren't the first woman to tell me that,' I said. 'Yours isn't bad either, Dee-see. Pert, I'd call it.'

She swore at me, but I ignored her.

'Is that fan mail?' I asked, pointing at the half-dozen envelopes on the make-up table.

'I'll take a look at them,' Smith said. She pulled on a pair of those white plastic gloves the Muggle police use, and held out her hand.

While she was distracted, I pulled open my coat and peered into my pocket. My Dark Detector wasn't registering anything, and my miniature Sneakoscope was silent. Grabbing my wand, and keeping it concealed inside my coat, I checked for recent magic. There were lingering traces of an Apparition, and a Disapparition, but nothing else. When I looked up, DC Smith was rifling through the letters.

'I'll need copies of those,' I told her.

'You won't get them,' she said firmly.

She was looking a little queasy. It was the smell of blood, I thought. It was affecting me, too.

'We will,' Den said. 'Just ask your boss.'

'And here are our experts,' I said. Dopey Donny Dunbar strolled along the corridor. He was carrying his camera, already on its tripod. Anne White was with him, and so was Healer Skoll. She saw me and glared. After her daughter, Amber, and I split up she told me, "I forgive, but I never forget." It seemed to me that she'd been lying.

'Need any help with the witnesses, Den?' I asked.

'Yes, but you're going elsewhere,' he said. He turned to DC Smith. 'You're Tallulah, right?' he asked.

She nodded.

'We've got an address for the likely victim, Mr Harris,' Dennis told her. 'DCI Bradstreet has sent uniforms to check the address, but he wants you to go and check the place out. You can take Stan with you.'

She opened her mouth to protest, but Den cut her off. 'I've cleared it with your boss, Dave Bradstreet,' he told her.

'Looks like we're stuck with each other, Tallulah,' I told her. 'Look on the bright side; at least it gets us both away from the smell of this butcher's shop.' I pointed at the star on the door. 'What do you think the headlines will say tomorrow, "A Star is Torn"?'

It turned out that black humour was her weakness. She finally cracked a smile. It was a nice smile, too.


	3. On the Case

**On the Case**

'Fancies himself, doesn't he?' Tracey said to me as she watched Stan Cresswell stroll confidently into the theatre.

'He's young, he's fit, and he knows it,' I told her. 'But he's not your type, is he?'

Tracey laughed and shook her head. 'You're married, eh? Let me guess: he's tall, broad shouldered, and a fitness freak.'

'Professional Keeper—goalkeeper,' I admitted. 'He's called Ollie, and he's a Scot.'

I pulled out my phone, and showed Tracey some photos of my husband and sons. She made the appropriate congratulatory noises.

'You're looking well, Bobbie,' Tracey told me.

'Thanks, so are you.'

'So what, exactly, does this Auror Office do?' she asked.

'Officially, they work with us, with SO15,' I said.

'Unofficially?' she asked.

'I'm sure you've heard the rumours, Trace. We get called in to look at the weird stuff. Locked rooms, impossible crimes, that's our speciality,' I admitted.

'Ghosts and vampires?' she asked.

'I've never seen a ghost,' I told her honestly.

What I thought, but didn't say was: _A tiny fraction of a percent of Muggles can see ghosts, and I'm not one of them._ I didn't mention vampires, because I work with one. Instead I looked into Tracey's face. 'I've never investigated a crime where a ghost was responsible,' I told her, 'although we were involved in the werewolf case in Yorkshire a few years ago, and the vampire case a few years before that.'

'That wasn't a real werewolf, or a real vampire.' Tracey said.

She was only fifty percent correct, but I didn't tell her that. Instead, I laughed. 'A real werewolf; is that what people think we're looking for?' I asked. 'It might be cool to carry a pistol which fires silver bullets, but I don't. I've been in this job for years, and we've had a hand in arresting several killers, but none of them have been ghosts, or vampires, or werewolves. Or Martians for that matter! Despite the coats, we aren't the Men in Black.'

Tracey looked into my eyes, trying to determine whether I was lying. I wasn't, although I was skating across the thin ice of a near-truth. I couldn't tell her that ghosts, vampires and werewolves exist, and I was grateful that she hadn't mentioned witches or wizards. Tracey—like me—was a Muggle; unlike her, I knew the truth. It was my job to make sure that the monsters stayed hidden under the bed.

Tracey stared thoughtfully at me. I thought that she was going to continue to question me, but she was distracted by something behind me. 'Yours?' she asked.

I turned to see Forensic Magic Specialist Anne White, Imager Don Dunbar and Healer Dacia Skoll approaching. 'Yes,' I told Tracey, 'crime scene investigator, photographer and pathologist.' I turned my attention to the trio. 'Evening all, the crime scene is just down the corridor. Stan is there.'

'Is he,' Dacia said grimly.

Tracey noted the hostility in Dacia's voice, and raised an enquiring eyebrow. I waited for the trio to enter the building before speaking. 'Stan and Dacia's daughter,' I said. 'It ended badly, almost a year ago. Amber is over it, but Dacia has a very long memory. She claims all is forgiven, but she doesn't forget.'

'Very few of us do,' Tracey observed.

I shrugged. 'Thanks for the information, Trace. Let's try to keep in touch. I could meet you for a coffee sometime, and we could catch up on the gossip.'

'Yeah, why not?' agreed Tracey.

I handed her my card. 'You can reach me on the mobile number at any time,' I told her. 'Now, I'd better go and talk to DCI Bradstreet and his team.'

* * *

><p>It was almost three am when I crept quietly across the bedroom. As I slid under the duvet, I disturbed my husband.<p>

'Late night call,' Ollie mumbled.

'First in a i_very_/i long time,' I reminded him. 'I peeped in to see the boys, they're both fast asleep.'

'So was I,' he whispered. 'They haven't stirred since we put them to bed.'

He rolled over, kissed my cheek, hugged me, and immediately drifted off to sleep. As I lay there with his arm across my waist, I stared at the ceiling and wondered what we were dealing with.

I needed to do something about Dacia's continued hostility towards Stan. It was fortunate that Dennis was well aware of the problem. He had arranged for Stan, and a keen as mustard young Detective Constable called Tallulah Smith, to go and check out Tommy Harris's home address.

Dennis was extremely capable, and I was beginning to wonder whether I was still needed. He'd been in charge while I'd been on maternity leave, and he'd done a very good job. While I'd been talking to Tracey, Dennis had worked his magic on the police. His combination of politeness, deference and respect in the face of hostility and mistrust had impressed the Senior Investigating Officer, DCI Bradstreet. By the time I went to speak to Bradstreet, Dennis had already persuaded the SOI to e-mail us copies of the witness statements his officers were taking.

We had cleared SOCO from the scene for a few minutes while Dacia, Anne and Don did their jobs. Afterwards, Dacia had wanted to take the remains back to the Auror Office for further tests. That was a request too far for DCI Bradstreet and he'd objected vociferously.

It had taken all of our powers of persuasion, but eventually Dennis and I convinced him to agree to allow us to take the lower torso and legs away from the scene. We'd had to include Dacia in our discussions. When she promised that she would work overnight, send him a copy of her report, and ensure the remains were sent to the Coroner's mortuary before dawn, he finally acquiesced.

Bradstreet knew that he wouldn't even get the official post mortem started until later that day and the prospect of an early report was enough to tip the balance in our favour. All in all, I thought, it had been a successful investigation. We had managed to carry out the work we needed to do without alienating the police, and Bradstreet hadn't even objected when, after a call from Stan, we sent Anne and Don across to the victim's flat.

At about seven, I vaguely heard a cry from one of the kids. Ollie moved first, so I rolled over onto my side and left him to it. The next time I opened my eyes it was almost ten o'clock. I could hear Ollie and the boys downstairs in the living room.

'Morning,' I shouted down the stairs. 'I'm awake, and I'm going for a shower.'

By the time I finally went downstairs, Ollie had made me breakfast. I fussed over the boys and, as I ate my muesli and yoghurt and drank my tea, I watched "Show Me Show Me" on CBeebies with them. They were still watching telly as I prepared to leave. It was a gloriously sunny day, and Ollie promised that he'd take the kids to the park once I'd gone.

'Do you want to tell me what you're dealing with?' Ollie asked.

I rapidly explained what we'd been called to. 'We're fairly confident that someone Apparated into Mr Harris's locked dressing room, and then Disapparated out leaving the bottom half of a body behind,' I concluded. 'There are still a lot of questions to answer. Hopefully Dennis will have copies of the witness statements. I'm sure he'll be in the office by now. I'll phone you when I know what's happening. But I i_will_/i be home before the boys' bedtime, I promise. Cheerio.'

As I turned to leave Ollie lifted the boys into his arms. He followed me through the kitchen, through the utility room, and out into the garage. They watched in silence as I unlocked the car.

'Bye, Ollie, bye-bye boys, you be good while I'm at work,' I ordered.

'Bye-bye, Mummy,' Ollie said.

I kissed my husband and sons, and climbed into the Range Rover. Reaching across to the passenger side, I placed my Muggle mobile phone in the shielded glove box before the magic rendered it useless. Ollie had stepped back. He stood in the door, and was encouraging the boys to wave to me. I strapped myself in, waved goodbye to my family, and used my Mirrorphone to call the Portkey Office for a remote activation. After a few moments, the Portkey Office did their job; there was a flash of blue light and an instant later I was in my parking space in the Ministry car park. Unlike the previous evening, I didn't simply sit and wait for my colleagues. Unbuckling my belt, I picked up my Mirrorphone and crossed the street, and entered the Ministry.

Harry's secretary, Yvonne, looked up when I entered the Auror Office. She inclined her head to the glass box behind her. I looked over and saw that Head Auror Potter was in his office. He had only recently returned from the Quidditch World Cup in Patagonia, and he was buried in a backlog of paperwork.

'I have to let him know the moment you arrive,' Yvonne told me.

I nodded. My boss would want an update. It was no surprise; I'd been working with Harry for more than a dozen years, and I knew that he was always very interested in any case where a Muggle died at magical hands. Unfortunately, I had nothing to tell him.

There was no sign of either Dennis or Stan in the main Auror Office, so I pushed open the frosted glass door marked "Specialist Auror Services" and entered corridor where I, and the rest of Harry's "Support Staff" worked.

My office, the office of the "Muggle Liaison Officer" was first on the left. After hanging up my hex-proof coat, I checked my in tray, hoping that I'd soon have something to tell Harry. There were three items in it. As I sat at my desk, I took them out and examined them.

At the top was a scribbled memorandum. The memo was embossed with the A encircled by an O which was the symbol of the Auror Office. The crossed wand symbol and the F.M.U. stamp showed that the memo was from the Auror Office Forensic Magic Unit, and therefore from Anne White.

Anne's message was, like Anne herself, short and to the point, it was an easy decision for me to read it first.

_AOFMU/FMU#1/MIT: 377 AJW1_

_Bobbie,_

_The theatre shows the residual effects of magic. I have confirmed only that someone Disapparated from the room. If there were any other spells used, then they have been camouflaged in some way. The victim's flat shows no signs of any magic at all._

_Conclusion: Either; the killer used a very sharp blade and then Disapparated, or; this is a Splinching._

_Anne_

I placed the memo in my Pending tray, and examined the next item. It was a manila envelope also embossed with the Auror Office symbol and labelled with the same case reference, MIT:377, as Anne's memo. It was marked "Evidence". A memo from Dennis Creevey was attached to the front. Den's note was not much longer than Anne's.

_MIT: 377 DC1_

_Bobbie_

_Take a look at these letters. The police have the originals. These are copies which Stan made. The envelope, however, is the original. I think we should check this out. The latest letter, the only one still in its envelope, was found at the crime scene. Stan found the other five at Mr Harris's apartment. They're all in the same hand, from the same person._

_The parchment is interesting. It is manufactured by Plume et Encre, in Paris, and so is the envelope. From the witness statements, it seems that all of the letters were delivered to the star's changing room at the theatre, but no one saw who delivered them._

_According to Stan, DC Smith was very interested in these letters, too. It's possible that the police have already contacted Interpol. I've alerted the Département de la Justice Magique in Paris, and suggested that they may want to involve the Bureau des Aurors. I've also asked them to check up on witches named Éloïse._

_Dennis_

I rifled through the folder. It contained six letters.

The parchment was obviously expensive. The perfumed, pale pink rectangle was bordered by two intertwined stems. Rose thorns crept along the bottom and up both sides, two blood red roses met at the top. Every letter was on the same parchment, all began "mon chéri Tommy" and they were signed "votre fille Éloïse". The quickest of glances showed that the writer was—in good, but not perfect, English—baring her heart to a man she didn't know, and that she was professing her undying love to Tommy. The only envelope, which was also pink and bordered with thorns and roses, had the tell-tale imprint of an owl's beak, which Dennis had magically highlighted.

I sighed.

The final item in my tray was a hefty-looking report. Beneath the Auror Office symbol was a second symbol—a green circle containing a green caduceus—and beneath that were the words Emergency Healer Team.

With a sinking feeling, I picked up the Healer's report. Dacia Skoll had, as usual, gone into an enormous amount of detail. I expected nothing else, her reports were always comprehensive. The report was long and complex. I flicked through the first few pages, which carefully detailed every severed bone, muscle, vein and organ, and realised that it would be a very long read. Fortunately, like Dennis, she had scribbled a short note which she had pinned inside the cover.

_Bobbie,_

_It's 6:30am, and I'm going home to bed._

_The Muggle police now have the remains, and a copy of the edited (Muggle-friendly) version of this report (which is also appendix B of this report). It tells them nothing but the blatantly obvious: Death was by exsanguination caused by the sudden severing of the torso. I have no doubt at all that the top half of the remains (wherever they are) cannot possibly be alive. The cut line through the abdomen is straight and clean. Death would have been instantaneous._

_The victim is definitely Tommy Harris. The hair samples Anne took from his changing room match the blood from the remains. This looks very much like a death by Splinching. I can't rule out a cutting charm until I carry out more tests. However I believe that, if he'd been cut in half by a spell, there would be a lot more blood at the scene. Anne may have more for you._

_If you need anything more from me, call. Otherwise, I'll check in at 16:00 to make sure everything is satisfactory._

_Dacia_

'Damn,' I said loudly.

Harry chose that exact moment to walk through my door.

'Are you okay, Bobbie?' he asked. 'It must be difficult, coming back after maternity leave.'

'I'm certainly not used to the hours,' I admitted. 'And I miss Susan and Lavender. But I'm fine, Harry. How was the World Cup? Ollie wanted to go, but he was needed at Puddlemere. He was really jealous.'

'It was great. We saw some brilliant games,' said Harry. 'Although why the Prophet thought it was a good idea to stick Ginny and Rita in the same commentary box for the final I have no idea.' He gave a rueful grin. 'Instead of concentrating on the final I spent half of the game l worrying about it. I know that "Head Auror's wife murders gossip columnist" is a headline Rita would love to write. But she wouldn't want it as her epitaph.'

'So the newspaper reports were true, Ginny hexed her?' I asked.

'Yes,' Harry admitted. 'Rita deserved it. She'd been making ridiculous comments about me, Ginny, and the Weasleys for days. And then she decided to pick on Neville, Hannah, and the others. I think her comments about Luna and the twins were the final straw. Fortunately, a disagreement between two Daily Prophet reporters is something for the Prophet to deal with.' He stopped and looked serious. Waving his hand, he brushed the small talk aside. 'Are you dealing with a murder, Bobbie? Do I need to allocate more Aurors to this case?'

'I don't think so,' I told him. 'I've got Dacia's report here, if you want to read it,' I added, lifting her report from my in tray.

He looked at the thick file I was waving at him and smiled. 'Not really,' he admitted. 'Can you summarise it?'

'I haven't been in the office long enough to read it all myself,' I admitted. 'It's looking very much like a death by Splinching.' I shuddered at the thought. 'I never liked being taken anywhere by Side-along myself, particularly as Portkeys are almost foolproof.' I admitted.

Harry nodded sympathetically. 'Any problems with the local police?' he asked.

I shook my head. 'No, I knew one of the uniforms from my old days at Kensington and Chelsea. She was helpful, and Dennis managed to persuade the man in charge, Bradstreet, to let us work with him. I think it would be a good idea to pass on our thanks to the Commissioner,' I stood. 'I was just going to take a walk along the corridor to re-examine the crime scene. Do you want to come with me?'

'I'll take a look, if you don't mind,' said Harry, nodding. 'But I won't interfere unless you want me to.'

He opened my office door, waited for me to stand, and motioned for me to go first. We walked in silence along to the Imager's Office. Don Dunbar's desk was the only one occupied. He looked tired and very worried when I walked in. His expression changed to one of sheer terror when Harry followed me through the door.

'Sorry, sir,' he said immediately. 'I've learned my lesson. It won't happen again!'

Harry looked at me for an explanation. I shrugged. I didn't really know Don Dunbar, he was a new recruit who'd joined the Imagers while I had been on maternity leave. I had no idea what he was apologising for.

'What's happened, Don?' I asked.

Before he could reply Dennis Creevey entered the office from one of the other doors, the one marked "Active Image 1 – Crime Scene – Authorised Personnel Only."

'I thought I heard voices,' Dennis said cheerfully. 'You're in luck, Don. Fenella has fixed it.'

'Fixed what?' Harry asked.

'I photographed both the crime scene and then went to the victim's flat,' Don admitted unhappily. 'But I forgot to change plates after leaving the crime scene. I double exposed the crime scene with the image of the victim's lounge.'

Fenella Boot, the head of the Imager Section appeared behind Dennis Creevey. A six-footer, she towered over the little Auror, and over her new assistant. Fenella's normally well-coiffured thick black hair was unusually unkempt; she looked very weary, and extremely annoyed.

'Sheer incompetence' she told Don furiously.

Harry and I stared at her in surprise. Fenella never got angry; she was the meekest person in the Auror Office.

'It's taken me three hours to fix a mistake that I haven't made since I was twelve! Separating the images should have been easy, but no! You tried to fix it yourself and ended up melding them together.' She turned to Harry and me. 'I've finally managed to separate the images for you.' She again glared at Don Dunbar. 'I could have fixed it in ten minutes if _he_ hadn't interfered.'

Harry turned to Don and fixed the white-faced young man with the steely gaze which made many felons surrender immediately. 'When you're in a hole, stop digging,' he told the young man. 'If you make a mistake, and you don't know how to fix it yourself, admit it, and get help. Don't try to cover it up.'

'Yes, sir,' said Don, shaking.

'And my name is Harry, use it,' Harry ordered.

'Yes, sir… Harry.'

'Harry hasn't been knighted,' Dennis observed dryly.

I was beginning to feel sorry for the young Imager; he had lost all colour from his face and was squirming uncomfortably. Many witches and wizards do when they're facing Harry.

'Can we go through?' I asked Fenella. She nodded and stepped aside. Harry and I followed Dennis into the room, into the crime scene image. Harry looked around in interest, and then hunkered down to look at the lower torso and legs which lay on the floor.

'Did you see my note?' Dennis asked me.

'Yes,' I told him. 'I think I know where you're going with this, Dennis, and I'm very much afraid you may be right.'

I walked over to the make-up table, looked at the paltry pile of fan-mail, and nodded to Dennis. He pulled out his wand and manipulated the Image. He pulled the Image of the letter from the pile of envelopes, and showed it to Harry.

'Delivered by owl,' Harry observed. 'What does it say on the back?' he peered closely at the image Den was levitating in front of him.

'Réponse payee. It means reply paid,' said Dennis, providing a translation. 'The police SOCO team took notice of it, too, because of the complete lack of any stamps on it.'

Harry peered at the envelope. 'You think it's from a French witch?'

Dennis nodded.

'And there were five more letters at the victim's flat, all from the same person,' I told Harry.

'What's your theory?' Harry asked.

We told him.

'I've contacted the Département de la Justice Magique in Paris. I was going to take a look around the Image of Mr Harris's apartment, to see if the other envelopes were still in there somewhere. Neither the police nor Stan found them, but it's best to check. The letter writer, Éloïse, may have written an address on one of them'

'Good thinking, Den,' I said. 'It may not be her, of course, but I think you should keep following that lead. I'll take a look at the other evidence, see if there's anything else of interest.'

It was a little after three, and I was reading through the witness statements, when Dennis dashed into my office.

'The chef du Bureau des Aurors has just contacted Harry,' he said. 'He believes that one of their Aurors has found "the other half of our puzzle." I'm about to arrange a Portkey to Paris, do you want to come with me?'

'Thanks, but no thanks. Take Stan with you,' I ordered. 'Where is he? I haven't seen him today.'

'I think he scored with DC Smith last night,' said Dennis carefully. 'At least, according to Don, they left the crime scene together. 'And he said that he had a date with a Japanese girl today. It's his day off, so I told him that we wouldn't call unless we needed him.'

'Susan's left us, Lavender's sailing around the Mediterranean with Mark and Violet, and Camilia and Polly are in the USA helping the Federal Bureau of Illumination. He's all we have,' I said. 'You're not going to Paris alone, Dennis and I've promised Ollie that I'll be home in time to put the kids to bed. Stan can take the late shift. Keep me posted.'

'Will do,' Dennis promised.


	4. On the Ball

**On the Ball**

Monsieur and Madame Joubert were a well-to-do middle-class couple. The decor in their apartment, and it's location in Neuilly-sur-Seine, indicated that they had good taste and an income to match. My unexpected visit had shattered their bourgeois lives. Their anxiety had begun when I'd arrived.

They had filed a simple missing person's report with le Département de la Justice Magique. This was a brave move in itself, as a visit from a Gendarme de la Justice Magique would cause consternation amongst their little community. To their horror, instead of a Gendarme, they had found themselves dealing with someone from the Bureau des Aurors. They certainly weren't the sort of people who were visited by an Auror.

Their story should have been simple. The Jouberts were worried parents. Their daughter, Éloïse, had left home the previous evening. She had Apparated across Paris to visit a friend, or so she'd told her parents. When she hadn't returned home, the Jouberts had contacted the friend, only to discover that their daughter had lied to them.

'So unlike her,' Mme. Joubert murmured with the naïvety shown by all parents.

I checked their daughter's bedroom and, unfortunately, found the walls plastered with posters of the murder victim—Tommy Harris—whose details had been sent through from London. When I returned to their immaculate lounge, my worry must have been visible on my face. I watched as their understandable parental concern soared above clouds of anxiety to reach the nauseating heights of fear. It was difficult for me to remain dispassionate; I could see that they were a nice and normal couple caught up in a nightmare of worry.

They asked me several times, but I could not tell them why an Auror was investigating a simple missing person's report. My enforced evasiveness simply lifted them to an even higher state of dread. They thought that their daughter was dead, but they didn't dare ask. I couldn't reassure them, as I simply didn't know.

It was a little after three when the urgent message arrived and saved me from their questioning. Excusing myself from their company, I assured them that there was probably nothing to worry about. I didn't believe my own words, but what else could I say?

On leaving their apartment, I Apparated to the cimetière de Montmartre. A quiet location, it was within easy walking distance to the crime scene and was therefore an obvious choice for me. After making my way through the gravestones and stepping out onto Rue Caulaincourt, I lit a cigarette. I needed something to suppress the increasing sense of dread which was broiling in my heart.

I rechecked the message on my Mirrorphone. My destination was the Allée du Midi, a narrow cobbled lane which lay within the tangled network of streets between the cemetery and the Basilique du Sacré Cœur de Montmartre. The alley wasn't far away, and it proved very easy to find; the entrance was partly blocked by police cars.

A small white Citroën in the blue stripe livery of the Police Municipale was, with some reluctance, moving out from the entrance. The much larger Renault of the Police Nationale, its sirens still blaring importantly, was attempting to force its way past.

As I strolled up the hill, it was obvious that I was already walking into a jurisdictional argument. This was a case for the Police Nationale and they would, no doubt, be flexing their muscles. I watched the Citroën reverse back into the entrance in order to once again block the road.

Two men climbed out from the Citroën. One was barely out of his teens; the other's teenage years could only be a distant memory to him. The youngster was lean and, from the outside, rather attractive. Inside, however, I could sense that he was a seething mess of bigotry and misogyny. He was tense, and boiling with indignation. The older man, the driver, was around fifty. Short and stout, he reminded me a little of my papa, and not only from the outside.

Both men wore dark blue blouson jackets and baseball caps, and both items of clothing bore the legend Police Municipale in large letters. I continued up the hill, quickening my pace and striding determinedly towards them. As I approached, they took a long, assessing look at me. I was only a couple of metres away from their car when the younger man took action. He stepped forward and firmly raised his hand.

'Sorry, mademoiselle, we are Police Municipale, this road is closed. There has been a murder,' he told me. He had the strutting self-importance of a small-minded man with a large ego.

I considered sarcasm. Both men were in uniform, and they were standing next to a Police Municipale car, yet the young fool felt the need to formally identify himself as he attempted to impose his will on me.

'She has eyes, Claude, very pretty blue eyes,' the older man said.

The bemused tolerance in his voice was not directed me, but towards his bumptious young companion. A glance at his epaulettes showed me that the older man was a Gardien Principal, and the more senior of the two.

'I think we may assume she knows who we are! And yet still she approaches us,' His firm words were a relatively gentle rebuke to Claude. He then turned to me and smiled. 'Can we help you, mademoiselle?' he asked politely.

I sucked in a final lung-full of smoke, dropped the still smouldering remains of my Gitanes onto the pavement, and ground it out with the toe of my Christian Louboutin's. After dismissively blowing the smoke towards the younger man, I turned to speak to his companion.

'It seems your young friend is new to the job, Gardien Principal,' I told the stout little man. 'I have good news; I am here to help you. Perhaps I can make your day a most memorable one.'

The younger man stared at me, unsure what to think, but his older and more experienced colleague remained warily professional. I attempted to ingratiate myself with the Gardien Principal by offering him the smile which melts many men's hearts. He merely acknowledged it politely. I tried again.

'I watched the Police Nationale chase you from your position, Gardien Principal. No doubt they told you that this is a job for the big boys,' I said.

I could see that the younger man was beginning to lose his temper, and I knew I'd been right to direct my comments to his companion. I carefully opened my jacket, and pulled out my wallet.

'I am with the Direction centrale du Renseignement intérieur,' I told him, flipping open the wallet and showing him my carte d'identité. 'I am here to chase the Police Nationale from the crime scene. Would you like me to tell them that they are wrong, and this is, in fact, a job for the little girls?'

The older man laughed, looked down at the ornate badge I carried, and looked back up in surprise. 'Never have I seen so chic an officer of the DCRI,' he told me.

'Thank you,' I said.

He reached forwards, and I allowed him to take the wallet from me and scrutinise it with understandable suspicion. While the Gardien Principal carefully examined my credentials, his colleague was carnally examining my figure. I ignored him, and simply watched the older man. When he finally closed the wallet, I held out my hand.

'Your credentials are in order, Mademoiselle,' he told me as he handed me my wallet.

'Thank you. A few questions, if I may, Gardien Principal,' I said. 'The radio report said that someone had found half of a body in a rented room, is this correct?'

The portly little man nodded.

'And it was the top half?'

He nodded again. 'Claude here lost his breakfast,' he said cheerfully. 'And one as beautiful as you should not see such things.'

'It is my job to see such things,' I told him. 'But thank you for your concern, and for the compliment. If Claude saw the corpse, then I assume that you did, too? You were first on the scene?'

'We were,' he told me. 'The body was discovered, and the alarm was raised, by the owner of the apartment. She went in to clean the place, and found the remains. She ran outside and flagged us down. Coincidence, we had been dealing with a minor dispute in a neighbouring property. I verified the woman's story, and called for the Nationale. They were not grateful.'

He gestured over his shoulder, and I looked down the cobbled street. The road was little wider than a car, and it was flanked by two narrow granite-flagged footways. The Allée du Midi was a terrace of three, four, and five story apartments. The Police Nationale Renault I'd seen entering the alley had joined two similar vehicles already outside a grey-painted three-storey property.

I pulled out my Mirrorphone and flicked it onto the image the British Auror Office had sent to the Bureau des Aurors. 'Was this the man?' I asked, showing the Gardien Principal the mirror.

He looked closely at the image.

'I believe so,' he said. 'What do you think, Claude?'

The younger man walked around the car and looked.

'Yes,' Claude told me. He suddenly turned very pale. 'That's him.'

'The woman who found the body, do you know her name?' I asked.

'Madame Thibault,' he told me promptly. 'She lives on the ground floor, below the apartments. She rents them out, usually to foreign tourists. But, before the Police Nationale arrived, she told me that the room had been taken by a Parisian. She told us that the young woman had an assignation,' he shrugged. 'It may be true. Perhaps she was waiting for her lover, and this is a crime of passion.'

'Thank you both. I will commend you to my superiors,' I said.

I looked along the alley to the cluster of cars. There was no ambulance, not yet. I smiled at the portly little man.

'I am sure that the Police Nationale have told you to let no one through, but please may I pass, Gardien Principal? I do not wish to pull rank on you. I want to save that pleasure for the Police Nationale.'

The man chuckled. 'You are DCRI, and I am not a fool,' he said. He looked along the Allée du Midi, to where two young men wearing the uniform calots and bomber jackets of the Police Nationale were now standing and watching us. 'Will you need any assistance?'

'No, they are only men,' I told him. 'And they are young. I can deal with them.'

He chuckled again, stepped aside, and allowed me to pass. As I walked down the alley, I wondered whether to inform London, or to wait. Should I take the two officers at their word, or confirm the identity of the corpse with my own eyes. I turned back to the Gardien Principal. Catching his eyes, I drew my hand across my stomach from hip to hip, indicating the line where the British corpse had been sliced in two. My new friend nodded.

_'They both identified the victim from the photograph and even if they hadn't, what are the chances of the bottom half of a body being found in London and twelve hours later the top half of a different body—each guillotined in half at the navel—being found in Paris?'_ I asked myself. Almost none, I decided. I pulled out my mirror and looked down at it.

'Bureau des Aurors,' I said.

'Bureau des Aurors,' was the instant reply.

'Contact the Auror Office in London,' I said. 'It seems very likely that we have the other half of their puzzle. Also, can someone ensure that no one from the Police de Moldue contact Interpol. I believe it would be as well if the British Muggle Police know nothing of this discovery. It will merely complicate matters on both sides of la Manche.'

When I looked up from my Mirrorphone, two Police Nationale officers were almost upon me. From their epaulettes, I could tell that both were Gardien de la paix. I tried to remember my training regarding the Police de Moldue. We were in the 18th Arrondissement, and there were no unmarked cars at the scene. I was confident that I knew which police Division I was in, and it seemed that, as yet, there was no one on scene from la Brigade criminelle.

'You are from the second Division de police judiciaire,' I announced. 'Have you, or your superiors, contacted "la Crim" yet? If you haven't, don't bother. I am DCRI! I am now in control of this crime scene.'

'You?' the older of the two asked in disbelief. 'I may have to teach you some manners, little girl.'

'I am DCRI,' I told them, holding out my wallet. 'I have not yet seen the body, and I already know more about this crime than you! Your victim is un rosbif, and the British know it. They will be here soon. I want to speak to whoever is in charge here, and I want to do it now.' The older of the two officers sneered dismissively, his companion merely grinned. I turned on my inner-Veela.

'I said now!' I ordered.

I gave them the briefest of glimpses of my sharp beak and scaly wings. It was enough.

The expression on the face of the younger of the two was one of abject fear. He immediately turned and ran off to do my bidding. Behind me, I heard my new friend the Gardien Principal laugh. The other man stared at me.

'If you do not obey me, you will be hearing from your superiors,' I told him. 'I want everyone cleared from the building, and I want to speak to the woman who found the body, Madame Thibault.'

* * *

><p>Although she had only three rooms to rent in her own house, Madame Thibault insisted on being addressed as "concierge". Outwardly she was old and frail, and the Police Nationale Lieutenant, who was the highest ranked officer at the scene, had annoyed her by assuming that her deafness and decrepitude equated to stupidity.<p>

It was obvious to me that, in fact, she was guillotine sharp and as unstoppable as the Seine. Unfortunately, she was also extremely wary of pretty young mademoiselles. As a consequence I had to tread carefully. I began our conversation by loudly denigrating all men, and Lieutenants of the Police Nationale in particular.

It wasn't too long before we were on first name terms and sipping café like old friends. I patiently waited until my new friend Agnès Thibauld had finished telling me about her late husband and her children before asking about the girl who had rented the room. When Agnès finally started talking, there was no stopping her.

'A nice girl,' Agnès told me. 'Not as tall as you are, and certainly not as slim, but she was polite and pleasant. I cannot believe that she would do such a thing. But even were she so wicked, I cannot conceive of any way she _could_ have done such a thing. Where is the rest of him? I will have nightmares for weeks!'

I commiserated with her, and then asked who the girl was, and how she had paid for the room.

Agnès leaned forward as though imparting a confidence. 'She paid cash, and gave me one hundred Euros too much.' The elderly lady looked around the room before continuing. 'It was as though she never handled money, Gabrielle. She seemed to have no concept of the value of the cash she carried. I gave it back to her, of course, and warned her. "So much cash! You must be careful, Éloïse," I told her.

'Merde,' I said as I received what appeared to be final confirmation. I hadn't been expecting to hear the name. I'd assumed that, even if it was the girl, she would use an alias. 'Éloïse, she called herself Éloïse?' I asked.

'Éloïse Joubert,' Mme. Thibauld confirmed. 'You know her?'

I shook my head sadly. 'No, but a young woman named Éloïse Joubert has been reported missing,' I said. 'I have spoken to her parents. They are worried about her.' I reached into my bag and pulled out the photograph M. and Mme. Joubert had given me.

'That is her,' Agnès told me sadly. 'Children are a blessing and a curse. I do not believe that someone so polite and innocent as petite Éloïse would cut a man in half. I cannot believe that she is evil.' She paused, and looked carefully into my face. 'Perhaps he deserved it,' she added stoutly. 'Some men are beasts.'

'Yes!' I nodded.

I was about to ask to see the room, but our discussions were interrupted by raised voices coming from the hallway. With a heavy heart, and with the frightened faces of M. and Mme. Joubert foremost in my thoughts, I excused myself and left Agnès alone in her sitting room.

I stepped out into the hallway to see the back of the Police Lieutenant. He was standing in the doorway, flanked by two of his officers, and was swearing at someone outside in the street.

The Lieutenant had protested loudly when I had tried to remove him from the crime scene. He had spent several minutes examining my credentials. I tried to charm him, but he was unmoved. Even though he could find no fault with my carte d'identité, it wasn't until I had threatened to contact the Préfet de Police that he finally acquiesced to my demand to take control.

'Do you speak English? Someone should be expecting us,' a man said to the Lieutenant. He spoke in that loud, slow and careful English the British use when speaking to foreigners.

'If you don't stop swearing at us, Lieutenant, I will report you to your superiors,' a second man said. He spoke good, if slightly accented French. The Lieutenant, who had apparently assumed that neither man spoke our mother tongue, immediately broke off his vile tirade.

I instantly recognised the voice of the second Englishman, and my heart missed a beat. I pulled out my Mirrorphone. 'Bureau des Aurors,' I said quietly.

'Bureau des Aurors,' was the instant reply.

'Call the Préfet de Police,' I said, speaking as loudly as I could. 'The Police Lieutenant is making a nuisance of himself, and he is insulting our British guests; I want him removed from the building, now. Please make certain that the Préfet is informed of the rudeness and incompetence of this officer, and ensure that the officer is ordered to obey me.'

As I spoke, the Lieutenant turned to stare his hatred at me. I stared back, unmoved, and he stepped aside to allow the two Englishmen to enter. The first was tall and fair, and gorgeous on the outside. He gave me a smile which, he hoped, would melt my heart. It was a good smile, but I could sense the despair and the barricades within him. The second was a man I had not seen for many years. He looked a little older, but inside he was the same honest and honourable man I had always known.

The Lieutenant's phone rang. As he answered it, I turned to greet the two Englishmen.

'Bonjour, mon chéri Denis,' I said, using, as I always had, the French pronunciation of his name.

'Bonjour, Gabi,' he replied with the shy smile and reserved politeness I had always loved. 'Vous êtes plus belle que jamais.'

'Merci,' I told him. So, he still thought me beautiful. I was certain that he was married, but I needed to confirm it. 'Ma soeur m'a dit que tu êtes marié,' I said.

'Oui,' he said, radiating happiness.

His joy should have broken my heart, but it did not. He was filled with a relaxed contentment, something I'd been unable to give him. Unable to stop myself, I walked over, bent forwards, kissed him on each cheek, and embraced him. His companion looked at me with lust and hope, and I realised that he was the sort of Englishman who would misinterpret a simple Gallic greeting as something else. I simply shook his hand.

'Congratulations, Denis,' I said, reverting to English. 'Your wife is lucky to have you. But, aren't you going to introduce me to your companion?'

'Gabi, this is Auror Stan Cresswell,' Dennis told me. He turned to his companion. 'Stan, meet Gabrielle Delacour from le Bureau des Aurors de France,' he said.

'I think I'll put in for a transfer to Paris,' Stan said, imbuing his words with an almost nauseating surfeit of charm.

'You'd be rejected, Stan,' I told him, not even attempting to hide my annoyance at his attempts to flirt with me. 'Because, unlike mon chéri Denis, you are not qualified to be an Auror in France.'

'You need to really speak the language, Stan,' Dennis told him quietly. He turned his attention back to me. Dennis' smile was bittersweet, filled with fond yesterdays and lost tomorrows. 'I'd really like to practice my French, Gabi. But, in deference to Stan, is it okay if we stick to English?'

'Oui, bien sûr,' I said.

His laughter brought joy to my ears.

While we had been talking, the Police Lieutenant had been protesting to his superiors. I heard him exclaim, 'Follow _her_ orders!' in disbelief before the call was ended. I approached him the moment he finished speaking.

'Lieutenant,' I told him, 'no doubt you have now been apprised of the international aspect of this investigation. You and your men will step outside. Your men will guard the door. You, however, will walk along to the end of the road. Once there, you will tell the two Police Municipale officers that, although you are barely qualified to do so, Mademoiselle Delacour of the DCRI has directed you to take over from them, as _they_ no doubt have something important to do. You will use those exact words, and you will not be rude to them. Do you understand?'

'Yes, mademoiselle,' he told me through clenched teeth.

We watched the three policemen depart from building, and I closed the door behind them.

'I hope that this is, in fact, your corpse, Denis,' I said. 'I will be in a lot of trouble if we have to return jurisdiction to the Police de Moldue.'

'Sometimes, no matter how polite you are, the Muggle police will not cooperate,' said Dennis consolingly. He glanced towards the concierge's apartment. 'There is still someone in that room, who is it? What have you got for us?'

'The building's owner, Madame Thibauld is still here, but no one else,' I looked sadly down at him. 'I believe we are dealing with a tragedy, not a mystery, Denis. The upper half of the body is upstairs, in a room which was being rented by a seventeen-year-old witch. Her name is…'

Dennis' face fell as I spoke. 'Éloïse?' he asked sadly.

'Éloïse Joubert,' I confirmed.


End file.
